


the words you chose, the way you write

by pocky_slash



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Epistolary, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easier, writing letters on paper. Erik can say things that stuck in his throat when he and Charles were together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the words you chose, the way you write

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to **pearl_o** for fanning the fire, as it were, and all the encouragement, as well as the beta. **littledust** provided the usual ninth inning rally when I began to despair.

The first letter arrives at the coffeeshop they've been frequenting. The proprietor says, "Isabella, si?" and when Mystique startles at being addressed by the name she's been using around the city, he hands her an envelope. Erik recognizes the handwriting and nearly brings the building down around them, pulling Mystique back towards their safehouse by the arm, ignoring her pleas for him to slow.

They'll need to leave. It was stupid to think they could escape Charles' reach this way. Erik may have the helmet, but Charles spent years with Mystique and of course Charles probably started on another Cerebro immediately. Just because he can't find Erik doesn't mean he can't find the rest of them. Charles could have the authorities on their way to the house this moment and--

"Eri-- _Magneto_ ," Mystique hisses and Erik stops, glaring at her, an angry panic welling in his throat, his hands aching to wrench the metal out of everything surrounding them. "It's not--it's just--it's Charles being Charles."

Erik swallows against the bile and rips the letter out of her hands. He reads it twice, his heart pounding in his ears, and then folds it back up and shoves it in his pocket.

"We should still move," he mutters, and continues to walk towards the safehouse, albeit at a more sedate pace. "Next week."

He was already planning on moving them next week, as Mystique is well aware, but she stays quiet and follows him back down the dusty road.

***

_My dearest Raven and Erik,_

_Please know that this is not a show of power or a threat. I apologize, Raven, for using you as a starting point in addressing this missive. I did not read your mind any further than it took to ascertain your location._

_I hope you're both doing well. It has come to my attention, as the boys continue to assist with the reorganization and renovation of the house, that you've left quite a few belongings here. If you are interested in retrieving them, I would be more than willing to ship them wherever you'd like or prepare them for your teleporter friend to collect. Please let me know. If I don't hear from you, I'll have the boys store them in the attic._

_It may seem foolish of me to say so, but please do stay safe. We may disagree on many things, but you both remain precious to me and I fear there's little you could do to change that. I shudder to think of you in harm's way, despite our opposing views on shaping the future of our kind. Always know that, should you change your minds about your tactics, our doors will always be open for you._

_All my love,  
Charles_

***

Erik ignores the letter for three days.

The evening of the fourth day, he locks himself in his room and drinks half a bottle of cheap vodka that he takes from Azazel. He stares at the letter, at the words, at the slight slant to the letters, one that Erik doesn't remember from before. Charles' handwriting was always strong and certain, just like everything else about him. He wonders if Charles is still weak from his extended hospital stay or if, like Erik, the very idea of contact after their separation is making his hands shake. The steadiest line is _all my love,_ and Erik tries to convince himself it's because it was the last line, because he had time to build up his resolve and his strength.

In the morning, he has Azazel bring him to a mailbox two hundred miles away.

***

_My love,_

_All I've ever wanted was a world where I was free to be who I am, a world without fear of further subjugation. I dreamt of nothing else until the night you pulled me from the water. I still dream of that world, you see, but it is no longer for my sake alone. I do not think myself noble, so I will not lie to you that this is a selfless desire for the betterment of our kind. That is but a gratifying side-effect of my true intentions._

_I want, now, a world where I can keep you safe. I want a world where you no longer have to hide. I want a world where you can be as glorious and radiant to everyone else as you are to me._

_Instead, I hurt you. I will never be absolved of what I've done, not in my own mind, but, if nothing else, I will do whatever it takes to create this world for you, Charles, a world deserving of your mind and your patience and your love. I will work until I achieve this, even if you cannot ask for it yourself._

_Stay safe. Be well. Understand that I do this for you._

_Yours,  
Erik_

***

They move again and again. Erik opens a post office box under a fake name in southern California. Azazel asks no questions, most likely a remnant from his time under Shaw, but Erik is grateful. He doesn't know how he would explain it if pressed. He can't explain it to himself--Charles is the only temptation he's ever given into. It's always been true, from the moment Charles first asked him to stay at the CIA off-site in Virginia to the time he first leaned in to kiss Erik in the dark parking lot of a diner in middle America. Charles makes him _want_ in a way he never has before. Charles makes him want so badly he can't bring himself to pull away and even now, even now that he's left for good, he still clings to the wisps of Charles still available to him. Charles has left an imprint in his mind, a permanent scar of love and passion. Erik doesn't want it, but he recognizes how precious it is, how sacred.

Erik doesn't believe in any god, not any longer, but he thinks of Charles and remembers the reverent prayers he saw in the synagogues of his youth. He knows better than to think of Charles as a god, but it's that kind of untarnished faith that rumbles through his chest. God has done nothing for him, but Charles had opened whole new worlds, helped him achieve goals that verged on impossible. Charles is arrogant and careless and frequently too gentle, but Erik trusts him to shape the future of their kind. Erik will deliver Charles the world to mold from scratch. He can think of no one better suited for it.

***

_Erik,_

_Oh, my darling, I want that for you too. I want you to be able to show the world how magnificent you are. I want you to sleep through the night unburdened by fear._

_I want to sleep next to you._

_For all that has happened, for all that we've lost, please know that, Erik. We may have different ways of pursuing our shared dream, but ideological differences will never sway my heart. I love you like I have never loved another. I understand why you think you need to do this, but with every moment that passes, I wish it didn't have to be this way. I wish you were here with me. My bed is so lonely without you._

_I feel foolish, writing you like this, as if we're schoolchildren passing love notes, but that doesn't make the words less true. This is all we have now, I suppose, and if it's all we have, I won't waste it feeling foolish. I won't waste words at all. I love you, I miss you, I want you still._

_Yours always,  
Charles_

***

Erik doesn't mean to continue, but each letter weakens his resolve all over again. He memorizes the words, reads them again and again until they're imprinted on his brain. He closes his eyes and imagines the words in Charles' voice, and when he opens them again, he's already poised to begin writing.

It's easier, on paper. He can say things that stuck in his throat when he and Charles were together. Now that Shaw is dead, now that Charles' eyes aren't pinning him down with all that wide-eyed interest and concern, he can scrawl his feelings across countless sheets of paper, words spilling out over and over again only to be crushed and discarded. He tries to craft his words, his feelings, until they're eloquent enough, until they're deserving of Charles' attention. He never quite makes it, can never quite find the English to convey what he means. 

He sends them anyway, on the nights the silence sets his teeth on edge.

***

_My dear Charles,_

_I miss your mind. I know such confessions are hypocritical. I know that I write those words even as I wear the helmet you despise so much. But it is not only the gentle current of your mind against my own that I miss. I miss your wit. I miss your humor. I miss your ideas and vision. I miss being in the presence of an equal._

_Azazel and Riptide care not for planning and strategy. Emma has her own agenda. Angel is still finding her feet. Mystique is coming along, but she, too, is still a child in many ways. None of them are you. None of them can keep up and all of them are afraid of me._

_You were never afraid. No matter how I shouted, no matter what I threatened, you were never afraid. You saw the depths of my mind, the terrible things I have done, and you still wanted me. I hurt you so deeply in so many ways and you still want me._

_No one will compare, and the realization echoes through my empty room every day and every night._

_I won't be vulgar here. You deserve better than that. But know the loneliness aches inside of me. Know that no one has taken your place. Know that it is you on my mind every day and every night, your name echoing through my skull, even if the helmet hides that fact from you._

_With all my love,  
Erik_

***

He checks the box once a week, no more, no less. Sometimes there's a letter and sometimes there isn't. He doesn't begrudge Charles when the box is empty. He doesn't hide his smile when there's a note inside.

They move more frequently as Mystique begins to infiltrate various groups. It's not always practical for Erik to hold onto the letters, and while he tries to keep those that he can, he burns the rest. He burns them to protect Charles, but also to keep them from the prying eyes of his companions. He'd made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that Charles is off limits. No one has questioned it yet, but as their numbers slowly increase, Erik grows ever cautious. 

He memorizes even the ones he burns. He has so little left of Charles that he can't bear the thought of losing any of it, not a single word. 

***

_My darling,_

_My love, there is no need to restrain yourself on my behalf. Have you forgotten our time together already? The bone-deep pleasure I took from your body, from your hands on mine? Have you forgotten how one look could unravel me so slowly, hanging on your every word, following your every movement until we could steal a moment alone? Please tell me, darling, that you haven't forgotten how to make me beg. You used to tell me what a pretty sound it was, those words falling from my lips, breathless, desperate, desperate for you and only you._

_There are things to relearn, now. I need to learn how to please myself all over again. I wish you were here with me. I wish it was your hands discovering new ways to please me. I imagine it is. As I touch myself, as I explore new sensations and old, I pretend it's your fingers on my skin. I catalogue every spark. I memorize every touch so when I see you next, when I'm next naked before you, I can show you how I like it best._

_Do you think of me, Erik? Alone in your empty room, do you remember me as you touch yourself? Do you stroke your cock to the memories of my fingers on your body? It's hard for me, sometimes. Your hands are so big, your long fingers, your broad palms--they don't compare to mine. I miss them, Erik. I miss your mind and your companionship, but don't think I don't miss your body as well, your beautiful hands and your sinful mouth and your cock._

_My god, Erik, I miss your cock._

_Do it tonight. Touch your cock tonight and think of me. I'll be thinking of you. I'll be missing you. I miss you every night, my love._

_Yours still,  
Charles_

***

Erik does as Charles requests. He thinks of Charles most nights. He felt guilty, at first, but the letters have made him bold and wistful. Charles' words have been inspiring lust and arousal since the letters began, but the open invitation in this latest missive goes beyond that. It's impossible to resist. He's had lovers before, of course, but they were all perfunctory, a means to an end. Never anyone worth remembering, certainly not worth fantasizing about. Charles is all he fantasizes about, now. It's Charles he's imagined nearly since the night they met. Gorgeous, wicked Charles and his obscene mouth and his skilled hands and--

He comes with a dozen memories twisting together in his head, the phantom recollections of Charles touching him, of him touching Charles, of fucking and being fucked, of his mouth on Charles' cock, of Charles' hand wrapped around him. He comes, gasping and panting and dizzy and so, _so_ lonely. He comes and thinks, _no, no, no, I have to go back, no, as soon as I catch my breath, I can't do this without him._

He closes his eyes, breathes deeply in and out, heart pounding so hard he shakes. He counts back from a hundred, and by the time his breaths are even again, the urge to flee has retreated to nothing more than a soft yearning in the back of his mind.

***

_Charles,_

_I would not want you to teach me how to touch you, my love. I would want to learn myself. I do want to learn myself. I will touch you everywhere. I will learn every twitch of your body, every noise you make. I will make you feel so good, Charles. I will wring the pleasure out of you. It will be better than it ever was before. I promise you, it will outshine your fantasies._

_I miss you, too. You were right--my hands will never be yours. My body alone will never achieve the highs I reached when it was pinned under yours. Even when I come, thinking of you, imagining you, wishing you were with me, it is nothing but a hollow victory. I feel empty without you, bereft as I come out of the fantasy and back to my empty bed._

_You were always so warm. You were the first warm thing I had known in so very long, Charles._

_I wonder every day how I can stand to be so far from you. I am a man who has survived the worst conditions humanity could devise. I have gone without food and water for long, painful days. This hunger is almost worse--no, not hunger. It is a thirst, because I fear I may either drown in it or die of it. Still, I carry on. I think of you thinking of me and the meager drops of pleasure that brings are enough to get by._

_Yours always,  
Erik_

***

Mystique comes to him one dreary afternoon as he pores over newspapers. Their last attempt at an infiltration was an unmitigated disaster thanks to a sloppy new recruit. Erik is itching to drop by the mailbox, but he tempers his desperation. It's two days until his usual Friday visit and he needs to have some illusion of control over himself.

"I want to get some things from the house," she says, picking at the edge of the desk. It's been nearly three months since the first letter, six since that day at the beach. Erik's surprised enough that he knows it shows on his face.

"No," he says automatically.

"Why not?" she asks. "If he ships it somewhere, anywhere, Azazel and I could pick it up. I wouldn't have to _go there_. I wouldn't have to see...anybody."

"We're not a part of that any longer," Erik says. He returns to the paper. "It's a foolish risk."

"So I'm not allowed to get my things, but you're allowed to write letters to my brother?"

Erik's fingers tighten on the newspaper, crinkling it past the point of readability. He swallows back a shout. He tries not to yell unless he's making a point. He certainly tries not to yell for no other reason but to defend his poor choices.

"He's not your brother any longer," is what he says instead, measured. Even.

"He's not your lover any longer either," Mystique says, and the metal pens in the cup on his desk begin to shake. He swallows another shout, gathers the anger and tamps it down, down, down to save for when he needs it, to save to pull out during battle.

"Who else knows?" he asks through his teeth. The words on the newspaper swim before his eyes.

"We all do," Mystique all but spits. "Your little trips to the post office aren't subtle. We've known for months. Are you still fucking him too?"

She's still but a child. She's learning and she's learning quickly, but she's had years as an Xavier, years being coddled by Charles, years of being protected. She's strong and smart and he trusts her more than he trusts any of the others, but all of that rationality is hard to focus on when his ears are ringing and all he can think of is _Charles_.

"What I do is none of your business and it never will be," he snaps, low and harsh. She doesn't flinch, but he can tell she wants to. Good girl.

"He's my brother!" she shouts.

"And you abandoned him broken on a beach," Erik says.

She stares at him, eyes round, skin going purple in a blush. "You're a selfish prick," she says.

"I never claimed otherwise," he says, and goes back to staring at the paper until she leaves and he can bow his head, breathing in and out and in and out.

***

He doesn't go to the mailbox that week.

***

Or the next.

***

_Erik,_

_I know we don't speak of business here. Having this is more important to me than any strategic advantage I could glean from attempting to manipulate you into sharing details of your exploits. It's selfish, I know, and if my students were to learn of our communication, they would surely think less of me, but I can't bear the thought of losing this. You are much too smart to fall for such blatant manipulation anyway._

_That being said, please forgive me for breaching the sanctity of this correspondence, but it's been weeks and I am sick with worry. I have seen the news reports from Chicago. Oh, my love, please tell me you're alright. Please tell me you are safe. Please, please be whole and unharmed._

_With love,  
Charles_

***

_Erik,_

_Anything, Erik. Any scrap that you're okay. Any hint of your well being. Erik, I am desperate and afraid. I've seen nothing of any of you, not in Cerebro, not on television or in the papers._

_Anything, Erik. Call, write, send your teleporter._

_I love you. Please know that. Whatever's happened, I love you. It feels silly to write it here--if something has happened, it will already be too late. But I feel better for having written it out._

_I love you. I love you._

_Always,  
Charles_

***

Erik's right hand is still healing, but if he goes very slowly, he can write legibly with his left. A broken hand is hardly the worst thing he's ever faced--none of this injuries from the fight in Chicago were nearly as bad as the ones sustained by Riptide, Angel, and Burner. All three of them will recuperate, but the past month has been a whirlwind of running from safehouse to safehouse, of finding doctors, of pulling their scattered team back together. 

He thought of Charles constantly. The four letters awaiting him when he finally stopped by the mailbox at the start of week six left guilt pooling hot in his stomach. He's not sure if the guilt is for worrying Charles or taking time out of planning their next move in order to retrieve the letters in the first place, but now that he has them, he can't help but respond.

It's good for him, the letter writing. It's good to get his head out of tactics and focus on something else for a few hours. It keeps his mind sharp and it keeps his spirit from suffocating under the fear that he has no idea what he's doing.

***

_My love,_

_I apologize for the delay in writing. I assure you my injuries were minor, though bothersome, (Though you did not ask, and I know how much it must have pained you to restrain yourself, your sister is unharmed.) It hurts to know I worried you so. I would not have done so if it had been feasible to contact you. Please be calm now, my dear one._

_Times like this are the hardest. I am so tired, Charles. I do not know that I have ever been tired like this. Even thinking of you leaves me empty and wanting, not even the memory of our time together enough to ward off the exhaustion. I wish only to touch you for a moment, to see your face, to hear your voice. That is all it would take to remind me why I do this._

_The color of your eyes is forever woven into my mind, but sometimes I fear I will forget how fathomless they seemed when you stared at me while we laid wrapped in nothing but the rough sheets of a motel bed._

_Always know that I hold your love dear to me. If I were to leave on a mission and never return, I would die knowing your love and die happily for it._

_I miss you so._

_Love always,  
Erik_

***

The recovery is grueling and long and Erik's attention is split fifteen ways. He doesn't trust the others enough to plan their own strategies. He needs an eye on every facet of the operation. He needs all of his focus on each new idea, but there are too many for him to give them the dedication they need. The single-minded rage that has fueled him for so many years is useless, here. He's not plotting only for himself, but for an entire group with varied skillsets and varied goals.

They're on the run. Outside of their initial group, the Hellfire Club and Angel and Mystique, their turnover rate is abysmal. The mutants they find are afraid and alone and it's just as hard to rid them of their desire for solitude as it was when he was recruiting with Charles. 

It's easy to lose sight of why he does this, but each time his resolve wavers, another letter arrives, reminding him of just who stands to gain from this, of the beneficiary of the world he's creating.

Maybe if he can do this, create this, achieve this--maybe if he sees their dream realized, he'll be once again worthy of Charles' love.

***

_Erik,_

_I understand the unspoken agreement inherent in our conversation. I know that so much so delicately hinges on the things we do not say, but there comes a time when my love for you becomes so entrenched in all else that it is difficult to separate the longing between us from the greater conflict._

_I hate what you do, Erik._

_I speak not of the destruction and chaos--I can hold those feelings within as I write to you. No, today I speak only of the danger. My love, I read the papers every day with my heart in my throat. Every news program sends my pulse racing, anxiety stealing the air from my lungs as I wait, filled with dread, to hear if tonight is the night that I learn you have been captured or hurt or worse. Knowing that you are out there, putting yourself in harm's way, is unendingly painful. I imagine this is the life of young women who watch their husbands and lovers go off to war. I may have even thought it romantic once, the idea of holding on to love despite the distance and danger, but now I understand the terror and the hopelessness, the never-ending apprehension._

_I am at my most selfish in these moments. In these moments, I want nothing more than for you to come home, not for the safety of others, but for your own. I'm sorry for speaking of it, for breaking the illusion. I will not do it again, will not ask you again, but I must do it once. Please allow me this at least. I cannot keep living with myself if I do not ask at least this one time._

_Come home, Erik. Please come home. Please stop this. I'm sick inside when I think of you out there. I hate this, all of it, and for none of the reasons I should._

_Please come home to me. Oh, Erik, I beg you, please return._

_Yours desperately and always,  
Charles_

***

Erik can't be everywhere, nor can Azazel, and they're barely back up to full strength when they're once again fleeing to a barren safehouse and nursing wounds. A fire of bullets took them down, this time, with Erik on the other side of the building and unable to deflect them. Mystique takes one in the shoulder, Angel's wings are damaged, and they almost lose Riptide, whose blood keeps coming and coming and coming even after they find a frightened doctor to treat him. It's embarrassing. It's infuriating. They're beyond these petty human weapons, or they should be. Bombs and rifles and inelegant bullets--they _are_ weapons, each of them more powerful than anything forged by a human. 

He never wants to see a human weapon again. But Emma raises a valid point--they do not all have offensive powers, and as long as humans come after them with human weapons, they'll need their own line of defense.

It's a long, loud argument. When it's over, Erik retreats to his room and squeezes his eyes shut, trying shake the memories of the destruction that bullets leave behind.

***

_Charles,_

_For all that you called yourself lazy and for all the privilege allowed by your status and profession, you had more energy than nearly anyone I have ever met. For that reason, I miss the early mornings in our bed the most._

_Usually so eager to embrace every new challenge, dawn always found you sluggish and drooping. You stayed in bed until the sun was nearly up, fighting off all attempts at consciousness, twisted warm in the sheets, you face smooth and content in the pale light. I admit here, though I am certain you already knew, that there were mornings I was unable to rouse myself, captivated as I was by your expression, by the open vulnerability of your body in repose. It was so rare to see you still and I tried to cherish those moments, to use them as an opportunity to study you and absorb as much of you as I could._

_It hurts me, now, to think of that wasted energy, to wonder if it itches under your skin, confined as you are to your chair. It hurts to think you'll never run again, to know I will never again see you walking carelessly backwards as you rush to explain the minutiae of some evolutionary theory or another. It hurts to know that it is my fault, and it is a hurt I will carry with me always. How you must regret the kindness you showed in saving my life if it led to this._

_I think I always knew something so close to ecstasy could not last, that our time together would be limited. I think I was preparing for it even then. I am glad that I did, that I had the unconscious foresight to memorize the curve of your mouth and shadows cast on your cheekbones by your eyelashes. I am glad to have those memories now. I drift through them often. You are never far from my mind._

_Yours,  
Erik_

***

Toad is useless. Toad is less than useless, he's _annoying_ and useless. Erik would be content to leave him for Burner and Riptide to play with, but Azazel insists he has information.

"Bombs," Emma says, eyes glinting as sharp as the diamonds she hides beneath the surface, "would be useful."

"I'm not Shaw," Erik snaps. "Nuclear war will not solve all our problems and thinking that is idiotic at best, catastrophic at worst." 

"Not nuclear bombs, not necessarily," Emma says. "But you can't deny we need an arsenal, sugar. They outnumber us. We've had this discussion. Don't bore me with it again." She yawns, almost theatrically, and Erik catches Mystique rolling her eyes. From the hall beyond, he hears Toad bellowing in pain, but there are more important things for him to deal with. "Listen, honey, there are three ways to do this. We can hide away and hope they don't see us, like your timid little professor and his school." Mystique goes rigid, but doesn't otherwise react. Erik has learned to lock his feelings for Charles so tightly away that Emma's careless words don't faze him. "We can be arrogant, like Shaw, and let them destroy us when they realize how few of us there are, or we can make the first move." She raises her eyebrows. "It's your call, but I, personally, am tired of Shaw's way of doing things."

That barbs catches, however. The rage leaves Erik's heart racing, but pride keeps him from lashing out.

"I think you'll find," he says through gritted teeth, "that I am nothing like Sebastian Shaw."

The legs of his chair scrape against the ground as he gets to his feet. He uses his power to slam the door open.

"Riptide!" he shouts. "Burner! Leave the fool alone. He has information we need."

He ignores the pathetic grovelling from Toad and whistles for Azazel. It's nearly 23:00 hours local time, close enough that he can pretend it's Friday, pretend there's nothing unscheduled about this trip to the post office.

***

_Erik,_

_I regret nothing of our time together, not a moment of it. I do not regret our arguments, our disagreements. I do not regret the silly lengths I went to in order to garner your attention. I do not regret waiting so long to do so. I regret not a single touch or kiss, not a single whisper of fidelity or affection. I certainly do not regret saving you, only that I could not save you entirely. More heartbreaking even than the consequence of that stray bullet is the memory of your confession the night before, your conviction that there is nothing to be done that will ever leave you at peace._

_I want to be able to change that. I want you to find that peace in me, in our dream, and it aches that you will not._

_You say you do this for me. You say you want a world where I can be free. My love, I want nothing but a world where you are unburdened and content. I only hope that there is a place for me in that world as well._

_I want to be your peace, Erik. So badly._

_Stay safe, my dearest._

_All my love,  
Charles_

***

They need to go tonight. He understands that. The information won't be good for long. They have a limited window to infiltrate the factory and the plan is a solid one. It's risky, but they can't let the chance slip away.

He folds Charles' last letter and slips it into his inner pocket, close to his heart. It's no more foolish than the words he's been writing these past months, than the confessions he's been making long distance. 

His reply is quick. It has to be. He'll write a longer letter later, and it becomes a promise to himself and a promise to Charles as he gathers his team and they begin their journey to the weapons facility.

***

_Charles,_

_There will always be a place for you by my side. You must know that it is only our philosophies that keep us from each other; it's nothing to do with matters of the heart._

_I have little time to write; if I am unable to write again, know always that I loved you above all else._

_The days to come will be dark, Charles. I know you do not wish to see that, but please, promise me you will stay safe._

_If anyone could be my peace, it would be you._

_Yours always,  
Erik_

***

The humans are everywhere, coming in through every entrance, through entrances that Erik didn't realize were there. His people are outnumbered and outgunned and he hears Burner go down, hears Angel screaming. There's no way out and he can't stand the thought of crumbling under this, of losing in a battle so worthless, so pointless, still so early in their crusade.

"Azazel!" he shouts. "Get them out!"

He doesn't repeat the order. He counts to ten, reaches for the girders in the walls, and pulls.

He thinks of Charles as he falls and wishes he had thought to remove the helmet. It would have been nice to say goodbye.

***

_My love, please forgive me what I am about to do._

_Your Charles_

***

Consciousness rolls back to Erik slowly like a receding fog. He's aware first of his physical self and then of his memories. Battle and bloodshed and fire and heat and pain and he's choking with it, gasping before he can so much as open his eyes.

"Ssssh," says a voice out of Erik's dreams. "Breathe, my dear. Breathe deep and calm your mind." 

He doesn't know how he's expected to breathe with Charles' cool fingers against his forehead, Charles' warm presence close enough that Erik can feel the iron in his blood.

He opens his eyes, breathless and panting. He doesn't have the strength to sit or even push himself up, but it doesn't matter--he can't move anyway. All he can do is stare.

Charles smiles at him, tremulous and wet and beautiful.

"Hello," he says. He strokes the side of Erik's face.

"You can't be real," he says. His own voice sounds foreign--rough and broken and faint. He's dying and this is his hallucination. It's not a bad one. He'd die happily in Charles' arms, even if it was nothing but an illusion.

"Sssh," Charles says again. He cups Erik's cheek and brushes his thumb against Erik's lips. "Don't be so morbid, darling. You're not dying, I promise you. You're getting better, in fact, and I'm very real indeed."

Everything about Erik is sore and hurting. Even his chapped lips sting under the movement of Charles' thumb, but the pain is worth the gentle touch. His left arm and leg are in heavy casts and the rest of him feels bruised and battered. He's weak and tired and his head is pounding so hard he can barely keep his eyes open, but none of that matters, not with Charles right in front of him.

"You brought the building down on top of everyone," Charles says. Erik doesn't comment on the break in his voice, the waver in his speech. "When it became too much, when it was clear you were outnumbered--the whole building. You were right in the center of it. That stupid helmet saved your life."

Erik's memory is better now, filling in slowly with the events of the battle. There are still pieces missing, most importantly--

"You lost two on your team," Charles says quietly. "I didn't know them, but I'm sorry for your loss."

Not Mystique or Emma or Angel, then. Probably not Azazel or Riptide, either.

"And the humans?" he asks, but Charles looks away.

"Your teleporter got most of your people out as the building started to come down," he continues. "He found you in the rubble. When I saw on the news and I received your letter--it was a boon, as it turns out. I contacted Raven and she admitted she had been working up the courage to contact me. You wouldn't wake up. They didn't know what to do."

Charles holds his good hand and Erik has to close his eyes. The words that came so easily when he was faced with a blank piece of paper and a pen are entirely absent. His brain is a muddle of languages and feelings that can't make it past his throat. 

"You've been unconscious for almost a week. I...convinced Raven and Ms. Frost that it would be best for you to recuperate somewhere you could focus entirely on your health. I convinced the boys that I had urgent business to attend to elsewhere."

Erik opens his eyes again and takes in his surroundings, carefully avoiding looking at Charles. The room is unremarkable, furnished with a dresser, nightstand, and arm chair. The walls are a light blue. Through the window, he sees a lush garden. The trees are thick. He wonders how far from civilization they are. He wonders how many minds Charles had to change to get him here unguarded.

"Erik, darling," Charles says, and there's no mistaking the break in his voice. It's a sob, a poorly swallowed one, and Charles' hand tightens around his own. "Say something. I--I thought--I'll leave, if you'd like."

"Don't."

The word leaves Erik's mouth so quickly that it scrapes hard against his throat. He looks at Charles again, forces down the nerves and stares at him. It's not a dream. It's not a dream, he's awake, he's aware, and Charles is here. Beautiful, idiotic Charles, as perfect as he appears in Erik's dreams, looking at him as if he's going to disappear, or maybe start shouting.

"Charles," Erik says, ragged, broken, his heart racing, his brain a knotted jumble. " _Charles_."

Charles laughs, wet and weak, and squeezes Erik's hand so tightly it feels as if the bones are dragging together. "I'm here," he says. "I'm right here, Erik. I'm here."

Erik can't speak. He squeezes back, curses his casts and injuries, wishes he could sit up and inspect Charles' body, learn the changes with the tips of his fingers, kiss his apologies into Charles' skin. Hell, he wishes he had the strength to sit, to hug, the calm to say the words that have been pouring out for months now, the explanations and the confessions, the proclamations of love. 

"I can't," he manages to say, staring at Charles helplessly, and Charles seems to understand. He smiles, a tear sliding down his cheek.

"It's okay," Charles says. He lets go of Erik's hand and Erik makes a soft, involuntary noise of protest before he realizes what Charles is doing, sees Charles maneuvering his chair, pulling himself onto the bed. Erik wants to help, _needs_ to help, needs to do something to stop the stab of pain as he realizes how difficult even something this mundane has become, but his broken body won't allow it. He watches, ashamed and grateful both, as Charles rearranges himself and then wraps his arms around Erik, slow and tentative, shaking despite his strength. "It's okay, love. I'm here. You don't have to say anything."

He wants to say it. He wants to say so much. He traces Charles' face with his good hand, follows the line of his jaw and his throat, touches his lower lip. Charles is here. Charles is right here.

"I'm sorry," is what he says when he finally opens his mouth. The words he's not been able to put to paper in all the letters he's sent, all the confessions he's made. "Charles, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't--" The noise that escapes his mouth is choked off and wet and Charles shushes him again, presses his fingers to Erik's lips, though they do little to quiet the sobs. 

"Sssh," Charles says. "You're forgiven. You will always be forgiven. Just come here. Let me hold you, please, just--"

He moves further into Charles' arms, presses their foreheads together so their tears fall and mingle together on the pillow. He boxes up his memories of Charles, his fantasies and his concerns. He'll save them for later, for the moments in the future when he is once again alone. For now he has Charles in his arms. There's no need for words between them, not when they can exchange touches instead.


End file.
